


Roadtrip

by hieronymusb



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M, POV Outsider, Road Trips, waxing poetically about food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-07 18:02:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20821520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hieronymusb/pseuds/hieronymusb
Summary: road trips after the apocalypse





	1. Viva La Chicken Rebellion

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone has any requests for more locales I'm more than happy to write it

Paolo was ambling back on his little wagon from the weekly market in town, held every Tuesday morning until noon, and the sun was just beginning to be a bit too uncomfortable for the old man. 

He wiped his brow with his well worn, soft handkerchief, heaved a deep sigh as his gaze wandered sky wards. His home grown vegetables, a way to bulk up his already meager pension, didn’t sell too well this afternoon. His dearest Lucia, may the Lord rest her soul, would’ve been cross with him at his return, but then would use up the remaining zucchini, beans and tomatoes to bulk up their nightly lunch. He heaved another sigh and looked back at his mule.  
His old jenny, Lavinia, was stubbornly refusing to move on the narrow street. She was a character, sure, but she usually made the return home eagerly (in her way). Even she must be getting too hot in this weather, Paolo thought.

Clicking his tongue didn’t work.  
Snapping the reigns as gently as he could in his gnarled, worn hands were able too didn’t work.  
Swearing and some very precise hand movements at her didn’t work.

He was getting frustrated. So frustrated in fact that he didn’t notice the car pulling up behind him and skidding a little to the side into the curb so it was level with his little wagon.

Paolo startled and stared a little at the sleek back vehicle. Usually, if cars like this showed up in the vicinity it meant rich movie stars on very expensive vacations or local politicians were getting a little too cushy with their money. But before he could speculate who it was or getting ready to be cursed out by the driver for blocking the street. The window rolled down.

A young man stuck his head out of the window. Well, young-ish. Paolo judged him to be about the age of his second eldest son. His hair looked terribly dazzling in the noon sun and his face shone just as bright. He also seemed to be in the passenger seat, which meant that the car was actually driving on the wrong side of the road.  
“Terribly sorry to bother you sir! We’re looking for the taberna Michele but seem to have gotten lost”, the man said. “Could you point us in the right direction?”

Unbeknownst to the elderly man, the two not quite human beings in the car could’ve just simply miracled themselves into the establishment (or close to it), but didn’t want to use frivolous miracles on their journey. They could’ve also used the fancy navigation app on Crowley’s smart phone, but as he had managed to make them absolutely unuseable in rural areas, they had, as the youth said, ‘played themselves’.

Paolo had to stare some more for a moment. He was absolutely sure that the man was speaking English, a language he had barely been in contact with and seldom needed to use. Of course he sometimes heard it on TV, in the news and when they interviewed English players after a match, but he had never had to use more than the bare essentials if at all.  
But he had understood the man perfectly. A man who looked like both a cherub and a weathered saint (St.Jerome?) at once. On the drivers side he could see a man in dark sunglasses lean slightly toward the open window. He felt a little unnerved by the stare he could feel from behind those dark shades.

He found himself responding, “No worries! I’m passing by the tavern on my way home, if you want to follow me? It might be a slow drive though.”

The man in the car brightened up. “That would be marvellous! Lead on signore!”

Lavinia, whose ears had turned as the vehicle approached and then had turned her head to observe the newcomers, suddenly decided to move again. Paolo gripped the side of his wagon as it started moving again, slowly making their way along the road to the next set of houses along the way. Behind him, he could hear the car moving sluggishly over the road.

As they approached the establishment the men were looking at he turned and waved his hand to the left, the driver of the vehicle gave him a short toot of his horn and waved his hand in a thank you gesture. Paolo returned with a wave and set off home. He soon put them out of mind and focused on the winding road on his way.

That afternoon, his son called him for the first time in a long while (as were several parents in the vicinity who rarely spoke to their children). He’d had a pleasant but fuzzy dream during his nap, of when he kissed Lucia, that first time at the village festival. His dinner was better than usual even though he was slightly miffed by the scores from the last game on television. He added a little baked zucchini to his panzanella, just on a whim. Even Lavinia was sweet and docile as he lead her to her small stable. He didn’t know that at the same time, his chickens were planning a small revolution in their coop, but he didn’t encounter their wrath until the next morning. Despite the strange day before and the remarkably vicious chickens before his morning coffee, he was strangely at peace. He felt like he could take his time as he sipped his coffee and perused the paper.

“Really dear, did you have to plant a seed of stubbornness into that old mule as we approached?” Aziraphale asked over their entree of steamed fennel, various antipasti and focaccia with olives. “You know as well as I that those beasts do what they want, whenever they want, angel”, Crowley replied as he sipped on the, admittedly, fabulous local red wine. “I still don’t believe you had a hand in us getting stuck behind that dear old man.”, the angel said as he pursued the handwritten menu on the wall for more delicacies. Pappardelle alla lepre sounded even more delightful than the tagliatelle al tartufo he ordered. He dipped the bread into the small dish of olive oil, herbs and balsamico and relished in the flavour and texture. Crowley mustered him bemusedly behind his glasses. “Well, we made it here, didn’t we?”. Aziraphale had to concede and toasted him to that.

Neither of them knew of the frankly ridiculous increase of rebellious coops of chickens and remarkably docile herds of goats in the nearby vicinity.


	2. Mess of a mass

A few days after this particular episode, padre Matteo was getting ready for mass on Sunday. As usual, he woke with a slight sense of unease. Sunday meant most people in the village and the vicinity would come to mass. Therefore, more people would be attending mass than usual. His house keeper at the small parish house, Vanna, didn’t say a word as she set down his breakfast of coffee and bread but gave him her usual sympathetic smile. She truly was a better person than him, he thought. So calm and steadfast. Never doubting.

He tried to calm himself down by telling himself that most of the townspeople, while pious and righteous, were also very much uninterested in his mass. He was aware that he wasn’t a great orator, or great speaker in general, with a tinny voice and rather forgetful face. But the people in town were pleasant enough and seemed to attend service only as a necessity, eager to get back to their small homesteads or homes, to spend the rest of their Sunday with friends and family, having coffee and talking. Even if it was Sunday, they wouldn’t be paying much heed to his words, awkward and fumbled as they were.

He would be fine.

Much to his horror, when he greeted the congregation that morning, he saw people he could’ve sworn were from out of town. Of course there were the usuals, like the mayor and the butcher slash restaurant owner Michele, the recently widowed farmer Paolo, the sole teacher in town Isabella, the remaining grocer Baldi and his wife, or the entirety of the Rossi family. But there were way too many unknown faces that he was comfortable with. However, he was first of all a well mannered man (his mother did not raise a fool) but also a man of God, so he greeted them all with as much warmth as he could must upon his mounting panic. Usually, mass consisted if his regular visitors, whom he could focus on during service, and that made him calmer over time. He steeled his resolve (and his faith) and let the altar boys close the doors.

Mass was a mess, to put it bluntly. 

“And if we- we turn to...what was it...Corinthians uuh...three sixteen... we can see that...uhm…”. He was sweating so much under his robes that he felt like he was leaving behind a puddle of water on the small altar. He was stuttering. Usually people were just going along, dozing, passively taking in his sermon of the day. Overlooking his panicked and disjointed service because he was so young and inexperienced. But he just couldn’t stick to his script he’d prepared the night before.

“Concerning the- um- the aspect of hospitality...I believe it might be prudent to...um”

But now? They were enthralled. Rapturous. Hanging into his every word. He could see several nonnas clutching their handkerchiefs when he managed to get a verse out right. Even the altar boys, usually bored out of their minds, were gazing at him with adoration and interest.

They’d worship with him even if he was standing outside this church , if he was proclaiming the word on a market place or in a forest. Like some sort of knock off Saint Francis.

He felt a sudden burst of, might he say, divine inspiration and went off his very stringent script for the first time since conducting mass in this small town.

“And I believe! As...as Saint Pope John Paul II said...umm! In regards to Saint Francis! We should appreciate all the things that the Almighty has gifted us with! A-Amen!”

The assembled people let out such an amen that Matteo trembled with the sound of it.

The Eucharist after mass is the best he has conducted in his whole career so far, if he might be so bold to say. He doesn’t stumble upon the words as usual, doesn’t falter when giving blessings to each individual. He hands out wafers, wine and blessing to his small congregation and feels elated.

Afterwards he is, regrettably, flooded with his flock and offers of dinner at the local trattoria after mass. He feels like it is some sort of divine intervention that people finally listen to him but the attention is unknown to him. 

Matteo does feel both blessed and burdened afterwards, surrounded by merriment and people he desperately wants to connect with. If there is a pair of strange gentlemen at the trattoria, one golden haired, the other in dark glasses, he only pays them attention that they seem to want.

“Did you really try and tempt that priest into questioning love and hospitality?”, Aziraphale asks over their secondi parti and heaven knows whatever parti of wine.

Crowley shrugs, nonchalant.

“I only put the fear of God in him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Aziraphale huffs a humourless laugh and observes the young priest, uncomfortable for the attention but reluctantly basking in it, from afar.

Padre Matteos services might not ever be this lively or pious, but the people in town continue to appreciate him for what he’s worth. From that point on, they’re forgettable but just nice enough for people to keep turning up. He wakes each Sunday with a strange sort of anxiety. It’s good enough to keep him on his toes.


	3. Solitude

Elisabeth didn’t really expect any visitors this late in the season. Her regulars had long since retired in the valleys or gone back north to whatever city they were from, but she appreciated them coming back every season. The work was hard but rewarding, always glad to see familiar (and new!) faces brighten up her day. 

She had already closed up for the day, getting ready for bed when she saw lights in the distance. She could hear Fini (what a ridiculous name for a large dog like her) bark at the new arrivals. Usually people this late were looking for refuge from the late Autumn storms, but the weather was curiously pleasant. So not someone who had misjudged the terrain and exhausted. Shushing the dog, she went downstairs to greet the visitors. She was mostly surprised at the state the two men were in as she welcomed them into the chatelet. She smoothed down the apron of her dress as she looked at the newcomers.

They weren’t dressed like they would have been in this altitude or weather even. One looked decidedly out of time while the other just looked out of place. She briefly wondered how they made it up to her cottage in this state.

“Hello lads, out for a late stroll?”, she tried to mask her unease in humour.

“Oh we’re just passing through, enjoying the mountain views and all, no?” replied the blonde man, seemingly dragging his companion into the warm entrance of the house.

“You have anything stronger than beer in here?” asked his companion.

Elisabeth felt strangely comfortable answering them, “I can get you something to drink and some food, I’m afraid it’s not much though.” She was always less jovial with the customers as opposed to Joseph. He’d had a way with people that she never could grasp just quite.

“Just as well!” answered the man (young man?) that reminded her of the angels painted in the church down in the valley. Very round faced and with a pleasant if detached expression. His face lit up as he turned to his companion though. 

Not so detached after all then.

She settled them in the dining room and went back to the small kitchen, Fini following her in hope of some scraps. She was unusually calm despite the strange company this time of the year. The dog had always been a good judge of character, just like Joseph.

As she was cutting up bacon, cold cuts, cheese and meat, she realized that the man spoke English to her. Or at least it sounded that way to her, she thought, as she was dividing small bowls of spreads and herbs on the plate. She had replied in the local dialect, the tourists delighted in it, but he had understood her all the same. She thought back to Joseph and how easily he had handled all the hikers who’d had come through, how seemingly he had captured people with his charm. He had always been better at people than she was. Thinking about him still made her melancholic, years after he had left her. She shook herself out of her unusual reverie and picked up the platter of food and drink.

As she brought out the platter of food on wooden boards, dark rye bread and the schnapps, the man in the sunglasses moved toward the glasses of fortifying alcohol. A home brew she was quite proud of. She had brought out a whole bottle of it, just to show off.

“You’re- you’re supposed to drink those after food...sir.” she found herself replying.

She couldn’t see his eyes beyond the lenses, but her guest's companion laid a hand upon his arm. “Darling, just wait for me and we can toast properly, all right?”.

The whole air around them reminded her of how she and her husband had been. A sort of exasperated love borne from many years and many hardships together endured.

She left them in the dining room. Elisabeth could hear them talking quietly, animatedly over the simple dinner and wondered if she should put them up in the double bedroom above the kitchen.

What seemed like an eternity later, pouring over the ledger, an “Excuse me?” and a knock at the door pulled her out of her revelry and focus. The dog raised her ears momentarily but remained in her place. The man in the dark glasses was peering in from the dining room into her office slash entrance. “Could we- uh I mean could I bother you for a room here?”. She was so sure that he wasn’t speaking something she understood but she motioned them up the stairs anyway. “M afraid there’s only a bed up there, so it might get cramped, but you can wash up at the well individually, outside, if you need to.”, she stammered. She was never good with getting guests accustomed to the simple lodging.

“Fair enough.”, replied the red haired stranger.

Elisabeth tried to remain inconspicuous as the two man made their way up to the second of four small bedrooms later in the night. 

She's seen her few share of dalliances in her time. God, even her and Joseph had to have some clandestine meetings behind the wood mill, or the old abandoned homestead, or out on her father’s hunting lodge to have some time alone. There’s a strange kind of thrill to it, one she doesn’t want anyone missing out on if she’s being honest.

Who is she to judge then? These young men enjoyed her hospitality and time, so the least she can offer is some privacy. She doesn’t want to presume. Being hostile doesn’t get you far in this trade. She decides to distract herself with closing up for the night, finally.

She checks up on the chickens and goats, check the larder just in case, makes sure the door is locked at midnight. Fini is more calm than usual when she herds the large dog into her bedroom for the night, despite the strange men staying over out of season. Just for once, she doesn’t fall asleep with worries haunting her thoughts.

In the morning, her curious visitors are gone, but they’ve left more than enough for her hospitality on her small desk than would be appropriate. She doesn’t own a guest book or anything of the sorts, but she can feel a sense of calm and gratitude as she starts her day. Fini is more placid than usual but the chickens seem a little too feisty for comfort. Rudi crows with such vigor in the morning that she thinks he might have woken the whole two chatelets in the next valley.

Nevertheless.

Maybe she’ll go down for service this Sunday. She hasn’t been in a long time.


	4. Museums and Angels and such

Usually, weekdays mean less visitors, so there is less to do. Which is good. But it also makes work dreadfully boring. Standing around and reminding people to not touch things after setting off alarms and radioing the security gets tiring after the first three times.

Usually, Theo is posted at the far end of the gallery. He admires paintings and prints when there’s no visitors to see and makes idle small talk with the supervisors when they come around. Sometimes visitors ask him either easily answered questions, if they’d bothered to read the material downstairs. Sometimes the conversations turn very serious. Who would have thought that people did actual research into paintings with monkeys in them? He wishes he could worry about his thesis paper this much.

On rare occasions, when one supervisor has to be somewhere terribly important (which usually means coffee and a smoke slash bathroom break), he gets to stand and guard the altarpiece in the main room. The recent, and only, visitors are surely much better than the small toddlers he has to watch sometimes.

They stand at a respectful distance. They don’t take pictures with flash (he can see the the red haired guy fiddle with a smart phone though). But their conversation carries in the small room and it is frankly a little strange.

“Do you remember when we saw him in his workshop at that time? He seemed so out of it.”, mutters the blonde man to his companion.

He privately thinks that any guy wearing sunglasses indoors couldn’t possibly see all the intricacies in the paint layers, much less remember it being painted.

The man in question doesn’t take his eyes off the panel in front of him. “I’m still worried he truly saw us for what we were. No one should be able to paint like that.” The blonde sidles closer to his companion at that remark, and they lean forward, touching at the shoulder, to observe the small figures more closely.

Which, of course, sets of the much too sensitive alarms. 

He startles a little at the sound but the man in the sunglasses immediately moves a little away, mostly from the blonde man.

Strange reaction, if he says so himself.

They both look at him with an embarrassed but apologetic glance and Theo just shrugs. No use reprimanding people. As long as he doesn’t have to radio the security guys he’s fine.

People must’ve seen the altar this close before. Not on its actual place of use though. He wonders how people must have reacted to it when it was opened on the high holidays. The figures are small but recognizable enough, but how would people actually react, seeing it up close?

He thinks he can make out the hushed conversation, along the lines of “Do you think, if you touched it, you would feel the same as back in that church?”

“Well, it’s in a museum now, angel, so it’s not quite consecrated ground. Same as in the Prado.”, the red haired man says.

“It still is an ethereal piece of artwork though. Do you remember how he talked about it? Even I could hardly follow him…”

The two keep arguing as he tries to follow them discreetly, dropping pieces of knowledge that seem frankly ridiculous for even the most seasoned art historians. As if they really had known the artist.

It’s a ridiculous notion, so he mostly follows them in hope of them not getting to close to the Botticelli on display.

They stand quietly before the other objects, the blonde man’s hand tucked into the other’s elbow. It’s all very proper but Theo thinks how he sometimes takes Anna’s hand and leads her along when out and about. How you subconsciously react to your partner’s body. It’s terribly old fashioned but he likes to make her flustered when he treats her like some dame in the 'fin de siecle'. 

They amble about the gallery after that, commenting about this and that, but they are truly the most pleasant visitors he gets to observe that day.


End file.
